


The Florida Affair

by ssclassof56



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurricanes & Typhoons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 02:59:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10151867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: Inspired by two days of buffeting by Hurricane Hermine





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LiveJournal's Section7MFU

Napoleon wiped his face with a sodden handkerchief, then returned it to his breast pocket, where it hung limply.

Illya snorted, rainwater running off his chin. “An exercise in futility.”

“It passes the time,” Napoleon said dulcetly. “Not so smug about your turtleneck anymore, hmmm?”

Illya’s heated response was snatched away as a powerful gust nearly tore them from the roof of the car. They gripped the top of the door frames, their wet fingers white-knuckled and cramping, until the wind died down to a bluster.

Napoleon applied the handkerchief again, his partner’s annoyance a welcome distraction from their predicament. “You were saying?”

“Of all the blockhead moves,” Illya spat angrily. “I told you it was dangerous to drive through standing water.”

Napoleon looked down at their rented sedan and the water lapping at the windshield wipers. If they made it back he would have a lot of explaining to do. In triplicate. “How did I know it would be so deep?”

“That is precisely the point,” Illya growled, then sneezed.

“You did that on purpose,” Napoleon said accusingly. “It must be 85 degrees. You can’t possibly be catching a cold.”

Illya sneezed again in reply, and Napoleon presented his wet handkerchief with a flourish. The Russian jerked it from his hand and blew his nose into it, then offered it back.

Napoleon grimaced. “Keep it. I insist.”

A flash of lightening briefly illuminated their surroundings. Black and grey clouds swirled ominously above them. The rising floodwaters now covered the road in either direction. The darkness returned with a tremendous clap of thunder. The car shook, and the agents pressed their hands to their ears.

“It’s getting closer,” Illya said, as the deafening noise rumbled away. “What an ignominious end to a promising career.”

“Don’t discount the Solo Luck, pal.” Napoleon rolled his shoulders and adjusted his cuffs. “I may pull something from my sleeve yet.”

“The only thing up your sleeve is a wet shirt.”

Napoleon held up a forestalling finger. “Quiet, please.”

At first Illya could only hear the dull roar of the wind and the metallic clatter of the rain on the car’s roof. Then his ears picked out the distinctive sound of an outboard motor. He wiped the water from his eyes and peered into the gloom, straining to see anything other than the dark shapes of the trees swaying in the wind. A smudge of light appeared through the sheets of rain. It grew closer with the noise of the motor, eventually resolving into an electric lantern lashed to the prow of a small wooden boat. The agents raised their hands to shield their eyes from its beam and better see their rescuer. A lone figure swathed in oil cloth manned the tiller.

The figure cut the motor and skillfully pulled alongside their submerged sedan. Napoleon nudged his partner with his elbow and gestured to the bright floral pattern of the skipper’s rain gear. “Solo Luck,” he said, and Illya rolled his eyes in disgust.

"Ahoy there, miss,” Napoleon called, his suave tones at odds with his wet, bedraggled appearance. “We’ve had a spot of difficulty. Could you give a lift to two strangers in need?”

The skipper looked up from the motor, and Napoleon’s flirtatious grin slipped. An adolescent girl gazed at them with dark, contemptuous eyes. “Don’t you know any better than to drive down a flooded road?”

Illya chuckled softly. “Kuryakin Justice.”

“Don’t you know better than to sass your elders?” Napoleon returned with a frown.

The girl smiled unrepentantly. “Sheriff called the house. Said a pair of darn-fool Yankees with more hair than sense drove off into the storm and never came back. Asked us to keep an eye out.” A slight Southern accent softened the sharp edges of her voice, which brimmed with amusement. “That you?”

The agents exchanged a glance, then nodded reluctantly. “In our defense,” Napoleon responded, “we were chasing some very dangerous criminals.”

The girl tossed her head. “Oh, them. They’ve been taken care of.”

“The sheriff caught them?” Illya asked.

“No, the gators,” she said simply. “Got themselves in a similar predicament, only they thought it would be a good idea to swim for it.” She shook her head, sending her dark braids swinging. “Sheriff arrived in time to see them dragged under.”

Napoleon shuddered and avoided looking at the dark waters around them.

Another flash of lightening lit the sky, followed quickly by a crash of thunder. The girl frowned. “Well, come on, if you’re gonna. Best be off before Angelique gets us.”

“Angelique?” Illya asked sharply. “What do you know about her?”

“She’s the storm, mister. Fixin’ to be a hurricane.”

“How appropriate,” Illya murmured.

The agents climbed carefully into her vessel. A gust of wind buffeted them. The little craft bobbed and rocked, bumping against the side of the car. Illya groaned softly.

When they were seated, Napoleon eyed their petite skipper in concern. “Are you certain you can find your way back?”

The girl stiffened and pulled angrily on the starter rope. “This is my grandfather’s land. I know it like the back of my hand, mister, dark or light.”

“And wet or dry,” Illya offered placatingly as they got underway. “Thank you for braving the storm to find us,” he called back to her, wincing as the rain pelted him.

“You’re welcome,” she replied. She was silent for several minutes, her full concentration given to steering between the trees and submerged flora. “My name’s Karen,” she offered eventually.

Faint smudges of light appeared teasingly between the trees ahead of them. Illya sighed in relief. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said. “I am Illya, and this is Napoleon.”

Her incredulous muttering was barely audible above the noise of the motor. “Illya and Napoleon?” The names rolled contemptuously off her tongue, as her braids went swinging. “Yankees!”


End file.
